by Karen Rose
That had been the moment that DJ had known that Waylon had to die. Now, all these years later, he replayed Waylon’s final moments in his mind, so glad that he’d killed the bastard.
Seventeen years had passed since Gideon’s escape, and DJ was just as angry now as he’d been then. Seeing Gideon’s face . . . He’d snapped. Before he’d even been aware of it, he’d pointed his gun straight at Gideon’s chest. And fired.
But the bastard had not died.
Not today, he told himself. He hadn’t died today. But he will.
DJ’s pulse was slowing, his mind gradually clearing again.
He will die, but Mercy needs to be first. Mercy was the greater threat. Gideon was Waylon’s shame and Waylon had paid. Mercy was DJ’s shame.
He’d claimed to have killed her and buried her body. He’d thought he had killed her. He’d lied to Pastor just as Waylon had lied. But DJ had had a better reason. He’d been chased away by a fucking bystander before he could finish the job.
Waylon had known that Gideon still breathed when he’d dumped him. Waylon had wanted Gideon to escape.
I am not like my father. Not in any way. Except for the fact that he had lied and now couldn’t let Pastor find out that Mercy was alive. Pastor would brand him a liar and would never tell him the access codes that the old fucker had memorized.
So he was back to the same plan he’d had before. Mercy needed to die.
Except now Gideon and Daisy Dawson would be on alert, because his brain was stupid and had reacted to seeing Gideon’s face. He hadn’t seen him clearly a month ago, that day in Dunsmuir. He’d been focused on killing Ephraim and Mercy. And then Daisy had shot him.
“Except you just made your job a thousand times harder,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck.”
Now the cops would be looking for a Lexus. He needed another car, but for now he’d change the license plates and keep his gun close. He wouldn’t risk stealing another car right now. Nobody would report the Lexus missing until Mrs. Smythe returned home. He didn’t know the same about any vehicle he could steal today.
He got out of the Lexus on legs that felt like Jell-O. Holding on to the car for support, he opened the trunk, found two matching license plates, and switched them with the set of fakes he’d made that morning.
Then he headed back for the Smythe house, exhausted and in pain. His head hurt, his arm hurt. His body ached.
He needed a safe place to hide, a place where neither the cops nor Kowalski could find him.
Kowalski. He wanted to groan. Now he was fighting a war on two fronts. He didn’t expect to turn the cops to his way of thinking. But Kowalski he might be able to manage.
He considered his father again. Waylon had been afraid of what would happen if Pastor and McPhearson spilled all they knew.
Kowalski had a family. He could be vulnerable if DJ spilled all that he knew. If he couldn’t be persuaded to help DJ, he might be convinced to call off his thugs.
It would be good not to have to look over his shoulder. So that was the plan. Get Kowalski to back off while he looked for another place to live.
He thought about staying with Pastor and Coleen in the rehab center. But Pastor kept whining for him to leave Sacramento and return to Eden, so the rehab center wasn’t a good idea.
He’d have to keep looking for a place, because Mrs. Smythe would be home soon. He’d kill her if he had to—the chest freezer could hold one more—but he ran the risk that her daughter would call to confirm that she’d made it home all right.
So his priorities were building a file on Kowalski, locating a new house, and finding Mercy. He still felt shitty and stupid, but a little more in control now that he had a plan. That would have to be enough.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:30 P.M.
Portia Sinclair folded her hands atop Liza’s résumé. “So do you have any questions for me?”
The interview at Sunnyside Oaks had gone well and Liza was cautiously optimistic.
“Yes, ma’am.” She hadn’t mentioned that she was only applying for a short-term gig. She hoped that she’d be able to get whatever Tom needed long before she started school. “What will my responsibilities be and for how many patients will I be providing care? On average, of course. I’m aware that your needs will vary from day to day.”
“You’ll be assigned one or two patients during the day, five at night. Sometimes you’ll go as high as three during the day and seven at night, but that is our ratio cap. Will that be a problem?”
Liza blinked. “No, ma’am. My ratios were one to five during the day and one to ten at night. So, no, this won’t be a problem at all.”
“Well, you were working in the veterans’ home,” Sinclair said, not bothering to mask her disdain. “This is a private facility and we have higher standards.”
Well, bully for you, Liza thought, but kept her smile firmly in place. “That’s wonderful. What is the range of patient conditions?”
“Anything from a short-term surgical recovery to long-term rehabilitation after a stroke. Patients vary in age from pediatric to geriatric. We really cover the spectrum.”
Including killers. Because Pastor was here somewhere. “I can handle that.”
“I’m sure that you can. You’ll have to sign an NDA. Many of our patients are public figures and won’t look as polished as they do in their outside life. You will not take photographs. You will not carry your phone with you while you are on shift. We provide a locker for your things.”
Which would probably be searched. “Those are standard policies. Not a problem.”
“Good.” She tilted her head. “How did you learn about us?”
“I found you online. I was looking for a position as a nursing assistant and applied for about a dozen positions. You’re the first to call me in for an interview. As I said on the phone this morning, I was surprised you called me so quickly.”
“You don’t know any former patients or other employees of our facility?”
“No, ma’am. I’m relatively new to Sacramento. I don’t know many people yet. It’s been a little difficult to reintegrate with civilians after my discharge.”
“I can imagine. You have no family here in Sacramento?”
“No, ma’am. My family is gone.”
Sinclair’s expression softened in sympathy. “What happened?”
Like you haven’t looked me up six ways to Tuesday. “My mother died of cancer. My sister was murdered.”
“How horrible.”
“It was. I was only a few months from high school graduation. I somehow made it through, and then, after that, I joined up.”
“You have a stellar military record. How did you get the job at the veterans’ home? It appears you started just a few weeks after your discharge?”
Liza told her what she’d told Irina—the truth. “My nursing school advisor helped me. She’d been in the army and took me under her wing.”
“So you’ll be starting school soon?”
“July, ma’am.”
“Would you be staying on here as well?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she lied. “I’m not wealthy. I need to eat.”
“But surely you have funds. Your husband’s death benefits. Didn’t you receive those?”
Liza flinched, not expecting that question. It was also none of this woman’s business. But she answered, because on this point she could be honest. “I did. I put enough away for tuition and lab fees, textbooks, that kind of thing. I put most of Fritz’s money in a trust for his family. He’d have wanted his parents to have a retirement cushion.”
“How kind of you,” Sinclair said, and she sounded so sincere that Liza wondered if the woman knew that they harbored a criminal like Pastor. But of course she knew. Molina and Raeburn had prepped Liza on the nature of the facility’s clientele. Mostly c
elebrities, but a fair share of drug kingpins and mafia bosses.
Liza shrugged uncomfortably. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask you about your husband. I hope I didn’t offend.”
“Of course not.”
“I assumed that it had been a long time since his death. I was surprised to see it upset you.”
Aren’t you the bitch? “How long is long enough?” Liza asked, thinking about Tom and Tory and their unborn child. “I saw Fritz die, so perhaps my feelings are a bit more raw.”
Sinclair nodded. “I suppose they would be. How do you feel about children?”
Liza frowned. “I don’t think you’re allowed to ask if I have children or plans to have any.”
Sinclair chuckled. “No, I meant in a general sense. Can you deal with a pediatric patient?”
“Oh. Then, yes, I can deal quite easily.”
“Even if the child is terminal?”
Liza froze for a few seconds, then exhaled as it hit her that her patient would be a real person—a real sick person—and not an FBI plant. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I could still deal.”
“Good. If we decide to hire you, when can you start?”
“As soon as you need me to.”
Sinclair stood, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming in. We plan to hire someone quickly, so I’ll be able to let you know fairly soon one way or the other.”
Liza shook her hand. “I’ll be looking forward to your call.”
Sinclair took her to the lobby, passing through a different series of hallways on the way out than they’d used on the way in.
Liza tried not to be obvious about looking into the patient rooms, but Sinclair noticed. “Apologies,” Liza said. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I’d like a feel for the layout and the kind of equipment you’re using here.”
“We have all the equipment you’ll find in any other facility,” Sinclair said proudly. “And if a patient needs what we don’t have, we get it.”
“Wow,” Liza murmured.
“Indeed. Well, here is the lobby, Miss Barkley. I hope you have a delightful afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
Liza walked to the visitors’ lot, where she’d parked Karl’s SUV, noting the cameras pointed in her direction. There were a number of them. There was also a tall iron fence with a gate behind it, which, according to Sinclair, was parking for employees and the families of their patients.
The atmosphere was every bit as oppressive and severe as the army base outside Kabul.
She pulled out of the parking lot, noticing a dark sedan pull into traffic behind her. It followed her all the way back to her apartment, not seeming to care that she noticed it.
It could be DJ, she thought. That would be bad.
Or it could be Sunnyside Oaks’s security staff, checking to see that she lived where she said she did.
Or it could even be the FBI. She hadn’t seen Tom in the sedan, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have followed her.
Regardless, she was glad for the relative anonymity of the apartment and Karl’s SUV. As soon as she was back in her apartment, she flopped onto the sofa and heaved out a relieved breath.
“So far, so good,” she muttered.
She checked her texts, expecting one from Tom, but seeing one from Mercy. Or, rather, from Abigail, who had used Mercy’s phone. It was an invitation to a sleepover tonight at Mercy’s. There would be nail painting, hair braiding, and makeovers. And ice cream.
The sleepover had been Mercy’s idea. Her friend had called her the night before when she’d been crying and eating rocky road. Mercy had floated the idea then.
Except that last night, she hadn’t been a part of a potential undercover operation. But if she backed out of this party, not only would she disappoint Mercy and Abigail but she’d raise a lot of questions that she didn’t want to answer. This had just gotten complicated.
Except . . . this apartment was for Karl’s clients. Many who wanted anonymity. It was why the ownership of the unit and the registration on the SUV were—hopefully—untraceable.
She opened a text window to Karl. All is well. Am at apt. Do you have disguises here?
Okaaaay. Why? was Karl’s immediate reply.
Going to Mercy’s tonight. Don’t want to lead anyone there if someone is watching. Paranoid maybe but want to be safe.
Are you claustrophobic?
Liza frowned at the question. No. Why?
Her phone rang a moment later with a call from Karl. “I hate texting,” he said. “We sometimes have to transport celebrities who do our commercials. There’s a large box in one of the bedrooms. Big enough to sit in. It’s a nice box, and has its own chair. You get in, the driver takes you out on a dolly, and once you’re loaded in his delivery truck and he’s on the road, you can get out. Sound like something you can do?”
“Yes, I can handle a box. I should leave by five p.m. if that works. Thank you.”
“Five p.m. will work, and you’re welcome. Be careful,” he said and ended the call.
With a satisfied smile, Liza switched back to her conversation with Abigail. I’ll bring nail polish and scrunchies. See you soon, Shrimpkin.
She had a life. She had friends. She had a family in Chicago who cared about her. She had a new family in Sacramento who cared about her, too.
And if she didn’t have Tom Hunter? She’d cope. She always did.
EDEN, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, MAY 26, 2:00 P.M.
Graham crouched next to Hayley’s pallet, a plate in his hands. “How’re you?”
“Ready to pop,” Hayley grumbled, curled up on her side, grateful that at this time of day the other wives were elsewhere doing chores. She needed to talk to Graham about their mother. She’d been worried sick about him since he’d splashed their mother’s shoes with piss. “Like a huge pus-filled zit.”
Graham snorted. “I’m gonna rename Jellybean. From here on out, she’s Zit.”
Hayley shoved herself to a sitting position, patting her stomach. “I won’t let him call you Zit.” She eyed the plate, then sighed. “Jerky again, huh?”
“Sorry.” He dipped his head closer. “There’s a little bit of chicken hidden underneath.”
She frowned. “Hidden?”
“Nobody knows what’s going on right now,” he whispered. “Pastor’s gone to the hospital and DJ and the healer went with him. Nobody knows when they’re coming back. Or even if they’re coming back. DJ never did bring back the supplies he went for, and he took the only set of wheels. Nobody’s sure how to get more food. And even the jerky won’t last forever. That chicken was the last of the animals they were able to bring from the old site.”
Most of the animals—cows, goats, sheep, and pigs as well as chickens—had been slaughtered prior to their move to the caves. The meat had been cured and stored, but without DJ getting supplies from the nearest town, the food had been quickly consumed.
“So we might starve,” Hayley said, trying not to panic.
“People are scared. Which isn’t completely bad. Scared people rise up. You know, down with tyranny and the man and all that. If they get scared enough, they might all try to get out of this place. Eat the chicken first. I wasn’t supposed to have it and don’t want to get caught.”
She popped it in her mouth obediently. When she’d swallowed she asked, “Did you steal it?”
“Duh. From Joshua. He’s eating chicken. Because he’s in charge.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Hayley muttered. “One of the other wives said he’d be the next leader, now that Ephraim is dead. Did Mom hurt you after you ruined her shoes?”
That their mother had gotten human waste on her shoes had been whispered all over the compound. It seemed to entertain Eden’s women. This is what happens without TV.
“No. Joshua told me to dump the piss pot, so I didn’t hear what came after that. But Mom has been super quiet ever since. Isaac hasn’t been speaking to her, so I think she’s in trouble.”
Isaac was the man to whom their mother had been married on day one of this hell. He didn’t seem to be a violent man, but he was an Eden fanatic. One of the earliest members to join way back in the early nineties, he was the community tattooist and enjoyed a captive audience. Every male over thirteen in the compound wore his ink on their skin. All the younger ones, anyway. Apparently there used to be another tattooist, who’d died in his sleep. He’d tattooed all the older men.
Graham will be tattooed—or worse—if I can’t get us out of here. “I’m glad she didn’t hurt you.”
Graham touched Hayley’s cheek gently. “She hurt you. There’s a bruise here.” His young face hardened, suddenly looking too adult. “I think that’s why she’s in trouble. But not because she hit you.” His gaze dropped to her stomach, and Hayley understood.
“Because of Jellybean.”
He nodded. “Sister Rebecca wants the baby alive and unharmed.”
Hayley closed her eyes, once again feeling the panic swell in her throat. “How do I stop her?”
“By getting out of here with me.”
Her eyes flew open, something in his tone grabbing her attention. “What did you find?”
“The computer and the satellite dish.” He grinned. “They were in the clinic, in a box labeled Birthing Supplies. Tamar asked Joshua if I could fetch the box so that she could get ready to deliver your baby.”
Hayley’s eyes widened. “Did Tamar know it was in there?”
“Nah. She was as surprised as I was.”
“Can you set them up? Especially the satellite dish? That doesn’t sound simple.”
“I’m going to try. I need a power source. I know they had one and it has to have been quiet. Some generators are silent. Or they had solar panels. I’m still searching for that. Tamar has been a huge help. She’s provided distractions all day so that I could hide the stuff I found.”
